


We All Hurt A Little Sometimes (It's All Right)

by scatteringmyashes



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Fenris (Dragon Age), Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-25 01:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14966267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: Fenris reconciles his feelings for Hawke, his feelings towards sex, and what that means about him moving forward. It's not easy, but he'll get there eventually."Fenris knows what it's like to want to die for someone. He's still learning what it means to be all right living for them."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fenris says a lot of things about himself that aren't true (and certainly not to the extent he thinks). That doesn't mean he's entirely wrong. It's just all rather complicated. 
> 
> Chapter I takes place between Act II and Act III. Chapter II takes place during Act III. Spoilers for all the above.
> 
> This does not start off happy. Mind the tags.

Sometimes, Fenris feels so sick that he wants to take a dagger and cut his stomach out because maybe that would be less painful than the lead bar that buries itself there, biting away at him and weighing him down. Other days, it is enough to curl up in what he calls his bed and shut the rest of the world out. 

It's not always because of the memories — what sparse ones he has of the time when he first recovered from the ritual and the others, all too vivid, making him gag and feel ill for entirely other reasons — but sometimes because of something that one of his companions has done. A comment made in jest, an observation born of goodwill, or yes, a remark laced with poison and sent to hurt. Those are the worst on bad days — when Fenris is already vulnerable, a sore festering in the sun — and the easiest on good days — when Fenris can breathe and remind himself that he's come too far to let this hurt him. 

Today it is none of the above. Just another card game at The Hanged Man, another day spent on some inane task that Hawke has dragged them to and from. Another gathering in Varric’s suite, drinks for all and the coin stacking high in the center. 

Fenris is not good at gambling but he is not the worst. That title goes to Merrill, who forgets to hide her cards and asks Isabela for advice too often, though Hawke is rubbish too. No one feels bad taking his coin, though, and he plays largely to give it away to his friends anyway so it works out. 

Tonight, though, Merrill is not there and Aveline is also absent. Instead, the game is made up of volatile personalities and that should have warned Fenris away but he has never been very good at denying Hawke. If Hawke asks, Fenris provides. 

Except for, well, the obvious. 

But tonight is not the time to dwell on such thoughts and Fenris focuses on his hand instead. It's nothing, a bunch of nug shit as Varric would say, but he sees Anders frown and is quite sure that Isabela is raising far too casually to have anything good, so Fenris calls. 

“Oh, someone's feeling lucky tonight,” Isabela jokes. She grins and Fenris feels his lips tug up. _Traitors,_ he thinks, settling down into his usual scowl. She just laughs, by now far too used to him to really be offended. 

If he wanted to hurt, he would. And she knows where his weakness lies. Tonight it is to his left, drunk already and laughing at some poor joke made by Varric. 

Hawke is wearing his customary armor but his daggers dig into his back when he sits, so those are on the ground between him and Fenris. Part of Fenris thinks it is an honor, to be trusted so close to Hawke’s weapons, but he also knows that he was trusted with far more precious and failed. He should not take pride in anything when it comes to Hawke. He does not deserve it. 

The round passes, and the next. Varric folds and Hawke raises. Fenris thinks he has something, but if another snake is revealed then he will have a real hand and he's willing to take the gamble. Besides, he's been fleecing Anders the whole night. It's not really Fenris’s money that he'd be losing. 

“You know, I was always told that the Chant looks down on gambling as a vice,” Anders tells Sebastian. Tonight, Sebastian is providing a shield between Fenris and the mage. Sometimes Hawke does it, but Hawke doesn't tolerate Anders all that well and it is only a matter of time before Hawke actually swings. So the duty falls on the others to prevent bloodshed. Sebastian, at least, keeps his disdain verbal. 

Fenris isn't sure why Anders is still invited. He knows Hawke used to get along with him better, but the two had a falling out sometime a year ago. Fenris doesn't like to think about how it coincides with certain other events, so he doesn't. Sometimes it even works. 

“It does, but only in excess. Most things done in excess are dangerous and a waste of the life the Maker has granted us. But he would not want us to spend our lives miserable, so we may fill it with enjoyment and activities that bring us happiness,” Sebastian replies. “That aside, I fold. I do not know what you have, friend, but it bests me.” 

Hawke shrugs. He checks that everyone else has folded — Varric and Sebastian — or matched — Anders, Fenris, and Isabela. Then he grins and reveals a hand that soundly beats anything Fenris could have hoped for. Anders has two pairs and Isabela has a flush, but Hawke collects the gold with his straight flush. 

“Dammit,” Anders curses, leaning back and scratching at his chin. “I swear you're cheating, but I can't catch a damn thing.” 

“Oh no, he's not cheating at all. That's pure Ferelden luck, isn't it Hawke?” Varric jokes, nudging shoulders with his friend. 

Hawke laughs and Fenris feels his heart clench. He wonders, not for the first time, if this is what people feel before he crushes their hearts. He doubts it — this is worse, repeating every time Hawke laughs or smiles too wide or even glances in a direction near Fenris. 

“Pure Ferelden luck is dog shit. Literally, there are recipes and they all involve mabari excrement.” 

“That's a big word for someone who grew up in a barn,” Isabela says, raising an eyebrow. She makes no mention of cheating, so either Hawke is not cheating or he's so good that Isabela can't even catch him. 

“Mother read to us. A lot. Carver hated it.” A moment. Hawke has never talked much about his dead sibling — that one at least. Carver is a handful of side comments, a few fragments in stories, and a picture that Leandra has in the library back in the mansion. None of Hawke’s friends are quite brave enough to ask for more. “But — it looks like you are out of money,” Hawke points out, glancing at Fenris. 

Considering he arrived with two gold, one of which went towards food and a few drinks and the other of which now sits in the rather impressive pile that Hawke has amassed, Fenris is unsurprised. 

“Don't worry, Fenris. I'm sure Hawke will let you make it back in other ways.” Isabela makes a face and sticks her tongue out. Hawke makes a disapproving noise and even Varric sighs. Sebastian frowns and Anders looks like he wants to say something, but his sense of self-preservation is reminding him that he really shouldn't. 

Fenris scoffs. “I already clean up his messes on the Wounded Coast. If Hawke wants me to follow him around and help him more, he will need more gold.” It's a stupid lie because there are many days — more than not — where Fenris follows Hawke for nothing more than a smile and a fight against some half-rate bandits. But he feels better misinterpreting Isabela’s comment and she seems to realize that she's gone too far. 

The rest of the night passes, Hawke loaning Fenris two gold to remain in the game. If Fenris leaves with three, giving none back to Hawke, then no one says anything. 

Hawke and Fenris walk back together. The silence is sometimes comforting, a reminder that they can simply be in the same space without issue. Besides, it is never truly quiet even up in Hightown. There is someone throwing up or a cat crying or two lovers making their way somewhere secret. The guards patrol fairly regularly but Fenris and Hawke are regulars at the barracks so they only get greetings and well-wishes. 

No one breaks the law quite as much as Hawke and no one, save Aveline, is a greater friend to the peace. Hawke is just that kind of enigma, everywhere and nowhere, helpful to some and an absolute terror to others. Fenris thanks every power he can think of that he met Hawke and, at the same time, curses his luck. If it weren't for Hawke, Fenris wouldn't still be in Kirkwall. He wouldn't regularly think about strong hands and hot breaths and warm skin pressed against his. 

The worst part is that only sometimes is Fenris thinking about Hawke. 

Sometimes their silent walks back to Hightown are nice. Other nights, it is not so silent. The two chat amicably, Hawke more so but Fenris knows how to hold a conversation. And there are still times when enterprising bandits attempt to rob them, mistaking the late hour and slight inebriation for weakness. Fenris never drinks so much that he cannot fight and half of Hawke’s style is so rough and rugged that it is hard to tell if the alcohol hurts or helps him. There have never been any troubles, though, so Fenris does not care. 

Tonight, however, Fenris feels his vision blur and his chest aches. He wants to stop and sit but that would concern Hawke so he stays walking, one foot in front of the other. His mouth feels dry and warm and like his tongue is moving through honey. Even if his mind could concentrate on words, his mouth cannot let them go. He keeps looking at Hawke and then recoiling as if he were realizing how close he was standing to a burning oven. But his body is drawn to Hawke, not in some lustful way but in something more intimate, something more fragile. Fenris knows moths will sometimes set themselves on fire if they fly too close to candles. He wonders if he is the moth or the flame. 

Fenris has no doubt that his hands can only destroy, that he knows nothing besides killing. That he has hurt Hawke again and again and again and will hurt him every day he does not return to Hawke in his mansion and ask forgiveness. 

Fenris knows that he cannot fix what he has done. He knows that the pain he feels must be nothing compared to what Hawke feels. 

That does not stop it from killing him too. 

They stop at Fenris’s mansion first, not because it is closer to The Hanged Man but because Hawke will not go home if he does not know Fenris is at least somewhat safe. Fenris swallows. He never knows what to say, even a year later, when this small act of kindness shatters him all over again. Hawke is no good with silence either, too loud and witty and charming and unsure of how to begin. That is what makes him and Varric the perfect team. Varric knows how to begin a story, Hawke knows how to end it.

“Do you want your gold?” Fenris asks. He knows that Hawke will say no, but he needs to ask. 

“Nah. I've got plenty. If I get anymore, I might take Isabela’s idea about a golden throne a bit more seriously.” Hawke grins. “I’d look great in gold.” 

“You'd look like a fool.” Fenris is half-expecting Hawke to grow offended, to scowl and tell Fenris to shove his opinion. But Hawke is no magister. He laughs. 

“Yeah, I would.” He bites his lip and it truly is ridiculous, this large man who can kill anyone in Kirkwall with two pieces of steel and a few flash grenades unable to speak his mind around an elven ex-slave who cannot go into the market at midday without his chest heaving and his vision blurring. “You know, Isabela was just having a joke. You don't owe me anything.” 

“I do owe you,” Fenris points out. 

“No you don't,” Hawke replies. 

And that is the problem. Fenris would give Hawke almost anything. Hawke wants nothing but the one thing Fenris cannot give. 

Fenris knows this will be a bad night. “Good night, Hawke.” He goes to step through his front door. 

“Fenris—” Hawke cuts himself off. His fingers flex, almost as if he were planning on stopping Fenris. They both know he cannot, will not. He respects Fenris’s autonomy too much for that. He knows that Fenris needs to be able to walk away because that is what freedom is, isn't it? The ability to walk away. 

“Yes, Hawke?” 

“Nothing. Just… I'll come around tomorrow, see how you feel. If that's all right?” Hawke sounds so hopeful, so ready to spend another day with his heart wrapped around Fenris’s wrist. 

And Fenris is cruel enough to nod before disappearing inside the mansion he has stolen. 

Sometimes, Fenris feels so sick that he wants to take a dagger and cut his stomach out. Tonight is one of those days. 

He walks in a fugue state, steps slow and small to the point where he almost trips over his own pile of clothes. He manages to unclasp his breastplate, set his sword next to him, but he struggles with the gauntlets on the best of days and he gives up after only a minute. They remain on and make it difficult to lie there, arms wrapped around himself. The blanket — dragged in from a guest room — is a comforting pressure but it takes a while for it to warm up. He shivers violently in the meantime, though it is not as cold as one winter spent running around Orlais. His body is rejecting — rejecting something and he does not know what else to do. 

#

Here is the truth. A year ago, Fenris killed Hadriana and learnt that he has a sister. He said cruel things about magic — which he has never apologized for and never will — and left the party to make their way back to Kirkwall without him. Then, that night, he and Hawke slept together. 

Here are a few lies. 

First, Fenris did not enjoy it. 

Second, Hawke did not enjoy it. 

Third, Fenris does not like Hawke. 

Fourth, Fenris regrets it. 

The truth is simple. 

First, Fenris enjoyed it very much. He cannot remember feeling safe with another person who is not Hawke. He cannot remember feeling loved with someone who is not Hawke. He cannot remember loving someone, truly loving them like in one of Varric’s stories or Bethany’s books or a million other tales, who is not Hawke. 

Second, Hawke enjoyed it very much. As far as Fenris knows — and he knows as much as Isabela knows, because she has never been very good at keeping these secrets and Hawke never thought she would, so it's okay — Hawke thinks about that night frequently. And when he is not pouring over what he could have done differently, what he could have done to keep Fenris there, he is remembering… he is remembering the feeling of Fenris’s skin under his hands, the soft gasps and moans Fenris made, the way he allowed Hawke to kiss his scars and the brands, and the sensation of _belonging._ That's a big theme in everything Isabela relays. 

Third, Fenris loves Hawke. 

He loves him. 

He loves him so much it hurts. 

Fourth, Fenris does not regret it. But he does not regret leaving either. 

Varric likes to say that he always tells the truth except when a lie is better. Fenris wonders if the lies are better here, but he does not want a world where Hawke thinks he goes unloved by the man who wouldn't just die for him, but who would live for him too. 

Fenris knows what it's like to want to die for someone. He's still learning what it means to be all right living for them. 

#

Here is a truth. 

The truth is that Fenris does not, cannot, like sex. He has tried. He has tried. He has tried so, so very much. But he never has and if Hawke is not the difference, then Fenris doubts he ever will. 

Here is another truth. 

Fenris wants to like sex. 

He wants to feel the rush in his body when he sees Hawke shirtless or a pretty woman outside the Rose. He wants to laugh at Isabela’s crude jokes and he wants to understand when Varric writes about passion and lust and hot bodies pushing together. He has made Isabela read a _lot_ of bad fiction aloud. She knows why but it speaks to their friendship that she has not brought it up. Fenris knows they have their disagreements — and she doesn't understand, because she never could — but she also knows when to remain quiet. 

“Do you want to go out?” Isabela asks as she lounges on a chair in the filthy foyer in the mansion he has stolen. Fenris shrugs. He is shirtless and Isabela is a good friend, but not too good as to not look, and it should make him uncomfortable but he also knows she will never act on it. She knows his — his feelings towards Hawke. “Not all of us are content dancing from one side of the room to another, swinging their sword around.” She licks her lips. “Though, if only I had a way of sharing this with Hawke. You'd really be the object of his dreams then.” 

“You told me that he dreams of other things,” Fenris half-accuses. 

Isabela shrugs. “You and other things. I never said how much of the other things existed.” She is a good friend, but not too good as to spill all of Hawke’s secrets. 

“If you wish to leave, the door is there.” Fenris returns to his sword forms. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought of Isabela as — as a partner. She seems like she is competent enough and gentle enough if she needs to be. Perhaps in a world where he is not broken and Hawke does not swoop in and steal his heart. 

Perhaps if Fenris was a little less like himself and a little more like Isabela. 

“This is supposed to be our time together though,” Isabela whines. “And instead you're playing with your sword and I'm sitting here like a lump.” 

“You are a very decorative lump,” Fenris replies. It makes Isabela laugh. Her laugh is a bit sharper than Hawke’s, a bit more cut off, but it is still a pleasant sound and Fenris is happy to hear it. He likes that he is the cause of it. 

“Well, I do my best work while I'm pretty,” Isabela concedes. She yawns and stretches her arms. “Do you think there's anyone to kill in Lowtown? Or Darktown, I'm not very picky.” 

“No doubt they are in hiding or Hawke has killed them already.” Fenris practices his spin again. It is hard to turn quickly and maintain control with his blade, but he exists to attract attention and so he must perfect fighting many enemies at once. The next attempt is sloppy and he stumbles as he stops himself. “Gah, my balance is poor,” he mutters, glaring at his sword like it is the problem. 

“Fenris,” Isabela says in a tone that warns him that she knows something he doesn’t, “When was the last time you got some proper sleep?” 

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. The circles under his eyes are hardly unusual but his stance is askew and his armor is unpolished. Even though he is up all night, he can't be productive. He just has to lie there, going over things in his head again and again as if he will ever come to another conclusion. 

The conclusion he keeps making is that he is too broken to be fixed and too broken to be Hawke’s. 

“I am fine,” he lies, not meeting Isabela’s gaze. 

“You two idiots,” Isabela murmurs. She stands and walks over, boots echoing on the cold floor. Her hands are on her hips. She does not usually look intimidated, but her eyebrows are drawn low and her mouth is a thin line. Fenris feels — he feels uneasy. He doesn’t even pretend to look at her eyes. “You know he loves you.” 

“I do not wish to talk about it.” Fenris steps away from her, sword hanging loosely in one hand. He never will raise a weapon against a friend, not again. 

Isabela crosses her arms. “You never want to talk about anything, do you Fenris?” 

He doesn't answer. He just goes back to his sword forms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fenris is trying to be less broken. He’s learning what it’s like to live for himself instead of someone else. He’s learning that it’s okay to want someone else as long as he doesn’t need them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot less intense than the last. Enjoy.

The truth is that magic stains all it touches, but nothing is more ruined than Fenris who cannot breathe without feeling the lyrium in his skin, who cannot look at Anders’s face without feeling sick or see Merrill’s cuts without wanting to scream. The truth is that Fenris is too broken to be put together but for some Maker-awful reason the eclectic group of companions Hawke has surrounded himself with is trying. 

The truth is that Fenris enjoys wandering Kirkwall with Isabela and he enjoys listening to Varric spin tales and he enjoys playing cards with Donnic or discussing Chantry policy with Sebastian. He enjoys fighting slavers in the afternoon and getting lost on the way back to Kirkwall in the evening. The blood mages are a little too plentiful, but it is still satisfying to kill them, to watch their eyes widen in fear when they realize they cannot defeat him. 

The truth is Fenris spends many post-battle moments watching Hawke clean his daggers and flushes when caught. He smiles at the poorly timed jokes and ill-phrased remarks. He appreciates the easy companionship and looks forward to the reading lessons — even if the difference between _you're_ and _your_ is something Fenris has difficulty mastering. More than anything, however, the truth is that Fenris loves Hawke. 

He has loved him for three years, he will love him for three hundred more. 

(The truth is everyone knows.) 

#

His sister betrays him and Danarius is dead at his hand and it is strange, because Fenris has spent so long imaging that moment that it seems like it cannot be real. He spends the next few days waiting to wake up from the dream, for the rude awakening to break upon him like waves against the Wounded Coast. But it does not and he is — largely — left to his own devices. 

Oh, the others visit him. Sebastian offers to pray, Varric hints at another stupid story that he knows Fenris will pretend to hate, even Donnic and Aveline come around with a bottle of wine and a fresh apple pie. 

“I wish I had been there to help kill him,” Aveline says, eyes flashing violently. Fenris inclines his head, taking the gifts carefully. He is wearing his armor, gauntlets and all, but he is experienced holding fragile things in his hands. 

“Do you have any plans?” Donnic asks. Fenris shakes his head. 

“You know you are welcome in Kirkwall for as long as you want,” Aveline adds. She makes a face. “Though perhaps you should add housekeeping to your list of talents.” 

“I will consider it,” Fenris replies in a tone that makes it clear he has considered it and come to an answer long before this conversation. 

“Has Hawke visited?” Aveline crosses her arms. Her eyes glance at the dull red around Fenris’s wrist. In a moment of weakness, Fenris feels the urge to cover the cloth, to hide it from sight. 

“Not yet,” he replies, resolutely not moving. He doesn't meet her gaze but he rarely does. Aveline nods, the three of them exchange more pleasantries, and then they are gone. Fenris is tempted to sulk in his mansion, something familiar and safe. 

Instead he eats a slice of pie and continues to struggle through his latest book, copying words he doesn't know to consult with Hawke or Sebastian later. 

He does not expect Isabela to come that evening, nor for the conversation to turn towards the two of them sailing off into the distance. Isabela goes into great distance about the possibility of wind on their backs — or at their backs, Fenris can't quite tell — and he knows this is almost more for her than it is for him. So he listens and nods but at the end he cannot help but let out a sharp chuff. 

“Yes, well, the crew of your non-existent ship?” He has more to say, softer comments more akin to their usual banter, but the door to his mansion opens and Hawke walks in. Isabela sighs, shaking her head and telling Hawke something as she leaves. The blood pounds in Fenris’s ears and all he can do is look at Hawke.

The man is broad-shouldered and has darker skin than Fenris, his hair is pulled back in its customary ponytail and his daggers remain on his back even as he sits across from Fenris. Hawke looks happy to see Fenris, but he always is. 

With Hawke, it is easy to be honest, to be vulnerable. Even though Fenris cherishes his friendships with the others, something about Hawke is — is different. And not just because they slept together. In spite of it, really. Something about Hawke draws Fenris to him and it would be frightening except for how much Fenris craves it. 

“You know, if Isabela runs off with you then only Varric will be here to appreciate my jokes,” Hawke says. Fenris snorts. 

“I see what you consider important.” Fenris gives Hawke a small smile, though, and Hawke returns it with a wide grin of his own. One of Hawke’s front teeth is chipped from a bar fight a year ago — he had a tankard smashed into his face. Fenris got the offender good, though, and Hawke claims that the chip only makes him look _more_ handsome. 

Fenris has neither confirmed nor denied that claim. 

“So, I hope I didn’t miss any big party,” Hawke goes on, not quite looking at Fenris. “Just, thought you’d want to celebrate finally killing Danarius. Drinks at the Hanged Man, party at your place — anything, really. We could even do something at the mansion. Maker knows that Bodahn would love the chance to cook for a lot of people again.” Hawke doesn’t mention how the last time he convinced all his friends to eat dinner at his mansion, Anders almost set fire to the table and Merrill got lost on the way to the bathroom. 

Fenris also doesn’t think about how he goes over so often Bodahn doesn’t even blink when he sees him, how Trinket — Hawke’s loyal mabari — begs Fenris for treats more than anyone else because he knows Fenris is the easiest to convince. He resolutely doesn’t think about how he shivers every time he sees the door to Hawke’s room, the only place — besides Leandra’s room — that Fenris does not go into. 

“Really,” Hawke continues, noticing Fenris’s silence and deciding to fill it with his chatter, “Fenris, you’re free now. Well, more free than you were. No more looking over your shoulder for freaky old blood mages!” Hawke pauses. “Hm, okay, no more looking over your shoulder for Danarius. There’s still a lot of blood mages in Kirkwall.” 

Fenris snorts. “Yes, I am free. Danarius is dead. It just… does not feel like it should.” He sighs and shakes his head. 

“You thought killing him would be the solution.” Hawke’s voice is softer, a little bit lower. Gentle. “That if you killed him, everything else would fall into place.” 

“I…” Fenris hesitates. Did he think that? Did he ever truly believe killing Danarius would be the answer to his problems? 

Yes. He did. Then again, he can barely believe Danarius is dead now, with the blood stains still there on the Hanged Man’s floor. He never gave all that much thought as to what would happen after, not when the possibility seemed so unlikely. 

“I suppose I did.” Fenris sighs. “I thought if he was dead, then I would be able to live as a free man does. But now… I have nothing. Not my sister, not even an enemy.” It is a little pathetic, Fenris decides, that he knows of nothing besides fighting. His one attempt at loving was — 

Well, perhaps disaster is a strong word for it, considering the source of his misguided affection is sitting in front of him. But he knows he is not like the others, not like Isabela with her casual charm or Varric with his witty way with words. He is not Sebastian, who can find solace in a greater power and he is — thankfully — not Anders, who can dedicate himself so wholly to a cause. He is not Aveline, who can fit into a greater whole and he is not Merrill, who looks for a past that no one else wants. 

“Maybe it just means you have nothing holding you back,” Hawke suggests. He has a hopeful look in his eyes. It’s unsurprising that he has managed to convince such an eclectic group to follow him. There is an awkward but natural charm surrounding Hawke, the kind that gets him free ale and good deals when he shops. 

It’s also the kind that gets him into all sorts of trouble, but that’s what Fenris is for. 

“I suppose.” Fenris doesn’t feel like there’s nothing holding him back. He still wakes up in cold sweat, he still has nightmares. He still feels the ache of old scars and the burn of the lyrium. “If I seem bitter, it’s not without cause. It’s… it’s difficult to look past what magic has done to me. Perhaps I should look forward. I just do not know where that leads. Do you?” 

Hawke catches Fenris’s eyes. “Whatever it means, I hope it means we’ll stay together.” 

His words are not a surprise, but they still hit Fenris harder than a rampaging Qunari. Even after all this time, Hawke — Hawke loves Fenris. 

(The truth is, Hawke will always love Fenris.) 

“That is my hope as well,” Fenris replies. He hesitates. It is easy to lie to himself, to say that everything is fine and that he is brave. It’s easy to lie and pretend that the reason he has not returned to Hawke’s bed is simply because he doesn’t feel like he belongs, because of the return — and subsequent loss — of his memories. 

He can lie to himself all day about his feelings, about how he needed space and how Hawke is better off without him. Fenris can pretend to ignore the looks Hawke gives him, the longing that is visible in those brown eyes and is reflected in the way Hawke protects Fenris’s back as if he were the warrior and not Fenris, who never thought he needed someone to fight alongside until he met Hawke. 

Fenris is very good at lying to himself, but it — it’s hard to lie about how he feels. 

“We never talked about that night,” Fenris slowly admits. He flexes his fingers, unable to meet Hawke’s gaze. 

“You didn’t want to talk about it.” There’s no judgement there and that’s the worst part. If Fenris wanted, he could end this conversation, could _never_ talk about it and Hawke would let him. Hawke would wait for something not guaranteed, though all of their friends know that Fenris does not wear a band of red around his wrist for fun. 

“I… I am a fool. I thought that you — I thought it better if you hated me. I deserved it.” Fenris doesn’t look at Hawke, but out of the corner of one eye he can see the way Hawke bites his lip, the way Hawke is ready to argue. But he remains silent for once, ready to let Fenris speak. “But it isn’t better,” Fenris confesses. “I… that night, I remember as if it were yesterday.” But that isn’t the whole truth. 

Fenris remembers Hawke’s touch burning, every shared kiss making Fenris’s chest tighten and every soft caress feeling like lightning against his skin. Hawke was gentle, loving, everything a person should want. Really, though, is it any surprise how broken Fenris is, that he cannot even find comfort in the arms of the one person he loves? 

“I am broken, Hawke. You deserve better. You deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve.” 

“You aren’t broken,” Hawke argues. “I know you have nightmares and — and hesitations. They—” 

Fenris shakes his head. “I cannot love you the way normal people love. I — your touch burned. Not because you were trying to hurt me,” Fenris quickly adds, knowing Hawke will easily blame himself, “I am merely weak. Broken.” 

“You are not broken, Fenris,” Hawke repeats. “But I don’t understand. I — you know how I feel. And I don’t expect things to magically change. You know I’ll wait as long as you need. But what are you talking about? What do you think I deserve?” 

Suddenly, Fenris gets to his feet. “You deserve someone who is not an escape slave! You deserve someone who can sleep through the night, who can walk through Hightown without being stared at, who can give you everything you deserve and—”

“Fenris.” Hawke slowly stands, giving Fenris plenty of time to react. Every muscle in Fenris’s body is frozen. His eyes are focused on Hawke, watching him warily. “I don’t care about any of that. I — I’m not some pretentious noble, Fenris. I was raised on farms and lived on the run. I came here as a refugee. I know they aren’t the same, but do you really think you’re the only one without nightmares?” 

Somehow, despite being there when Bethany died, being there when Leandra was found, being there when Hawke fought the Arishok and watching Hawke break down every time he failed to save someone — 

Fenris never really thought about Hawke before, Hawke the vulnerable and terrified refugee coming to a new city in hope for a new start, somewhere away from the devastation of Ferelden. 

“I don’t want anyone else, Fenris. And if you aren’t ready, that’s fine just — don’t tell me what I do or don’t deserve. That isn’t your decision.” Hawke speaks gently, but firmly. He’s a stubborn man, everyone knows, and Fenris knows that he’ll wait a thousand years if that’s what Fenris asks. 

There’s a moment. Silence stretches between them. Then Hawke sighs, shakes his head, and steps back. 

“I… I just wanted to know you’re okay. Come by the mansion sometime? I think Trinket misses his favorite elf. And… I… I missed you. That’s all. I’ll see you around then?” Hawke doesn’t wait for a reply as he leaves. 

#

Here are a few lies. 

Fenris is a coward. 

Fenris is cruel. 

Fenris is cold. 

Fenris is broken and he will never be better.

Here are a few truths. 

Fenris is brave, except that bravery is required to do things such as shop for himself, eat what he wants, sleep whenever, kiss whoever. He considers himself brave, but he knows that it does not seem like it to most. 

Fenris is kind. He helps Sebastian at the Chantry, he laughs as Hawke’s worst jokes — though, personally, Fenris does enjoy all of them — and he has killed his fair share of slavers and bandits and blood mages and other people who would bring harm to innocents. Perhaps he is not kind like a charitable noble and perhaps he is not kind like a saint, but he is kind enough.

Fenris is warm. He shares sharp comments with Isabela, he toasts to Aveline and Donnic’s relationship, he leans back and smiles when he feels safe around his friends. He cares for his friends, for his companions. 

Most importantly, Fenris is trying to be less broken. He’s learning what it’s like to live for himself instead of someone else. He’s learning that it’s okay to want someone else as long as he doesn’t need them. 

#

Fenris goes after Hawke. It’s not quite dark — the sun is setting, the last few rays still visible over the tops of Hightown mansions. Hawke is walking slowly, like he knows he has to keep moving but doesn’t want to. Fenris’s throat closes up and he cannot call out, so instead he runs. He goes to Hawke, not stopping as Hawke turns around. Hawke’s eyes go wide with surprise as Fenris pulls him into an embrace, not kissing him but pressing his lips against Hawke’s jaw. 

Hawke smells like sweat and iron and leather. He’s warm to the touch but comfortably so, not burning. He returns the hug, burying his nose in Fenris’s hair. His arms wrap around Fenris tightly but not constricting, more than loose enough for Fenris to squirm free if he wants. 

The two stand there for a time, Fenris allowing himself this because he is just selfish enough to pretend that this isn’t the end. He isn’t shaking, but he doesn’t feel steady as the two pull apart. Fenris remains close enough for Hawke to touch, but Hawke’s hands fall to his side when Fenris releases his hold. 

“Hawke, I… I know that you care for me.”

Hawke snorts. “Fenris, I care about Trinket and my daggers and good food. I _adore_ you. You’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever known. There is no one who compares to you. No one.” His words are so brutally honest that they take Fenris’s breath away. Hawke’s eyes are bright and sharp and he looks beautiful in the sunset’s light. 

“I cannot love you the way you want,” Fenris replies, because he is not cruel enough to lie. The look on Hawke’s face is devastation and Fenris quickly explains, “I do not like sex. I will never like it.”

A moment of silence and then: “Is it because of Danarius?” 

Fenris shakes his head, then shrugs. “I do not know. I cannot remember ever truly enjoying it but… I never had much choice.” 

“Did I remind you of him?” Hawke’s voice is a whisper. 

“No. Never.” Hawke is nothing like Danarius. For all of Fenris’s uncertainties, that is not one of them. “You are nothing like him, Hawke.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Hawke swallows. “You know, I haven’t had sex since that night.” Fenris doesn’t let himself hope, but he watches Hawke as he continues speaking. “And, really, sex is all right, but it’s not _necessary._ As long as you’re okay hugging sometimes. And you have to endure me snoring, but only if you want to share a bed — Maker knows I have enough empty ones at the mansion. Er, if you want to move in. You don’t have to, but I know Isabela has money riding on it so that’s worth consideration—” Hawke snaps his mouth shut. “I… What I am trying to say, Fenris, is that you could tell me you only wished to see me alternating weekends and only if I wear a dress and dance a traditional dwarven jig the entire time and I’d ask which dress and what jig.”

It’s such an awfully Hawke thing to say, really. Fenris can only reply in kind. 

“You would look horrible in a dress,” he says. Hawke lets out a nervous laugh. 

“Well, I never much fancied them as a kid.” He gives Fenris a small smile before frowning again, eyebrows furrowing as he grows serious. “Really, Fenris, if you never want to touch me again… Well, I’ll be sad because I enjoy our hugs and sitting next to you and I’d very much like to kiss you, but I never want to do anything you don’t want. Okay?”

Fenris believes him. He knows that Hawke means every word. But Fenris can’t open his mouth, can’t explain how worried he was, and he’s scared that if he keeps standing there he’s going to begin crying. So Fenris can only do one thing. 

He kisses Hawke. Gently, softly, not the last kiss of someone desperate for love but a kiss promising more. 

The truth is Fenris loves Hawke. The truth is, Hawke makes everything a little bit easier, the lead bar in Fenris’s stomach a little less heavy, the pain in his chest a little less intense. 

Fenris loves Hawke and the truth is, sometimes it really is that simple.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr.](http://scatteringmyashes.tumblr.com)


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